Some films defy all sense. They are in some respects invulnerable to criticism. By the time the trampolining troglodytes bounded out of nowhere onto Caroline Munro I was well into understanding that Starcrash is one of these. Made in ’78 as part of the post-Star Wars sci-fi boom it shares some obvious elements with its progenitor, including light-sabers, a final assault on the villain’s base (which appears to be shaped like a hand that closes into a fist when attacked) and a robotic side-kick (who for some reason is from Texas). It also has a soundtrack by John Barry, features Christopher Plummer (wildly camping it up) and a villain played by Godfather alumnus Joe Spinell, a man who thinks that there’s a sun-rise in space. The plot is non-nonsensical, effects are cheap (with some of the worst stop-motion ever devised) and the cast spend so much time laughing out loud I can only assume they were high. Oh, and one of the main characters is played by a former evangelist preacher. It cost $4 million.

Made in Italy, filmed at Cinecittá no less, but looking about as convincing as a late 70s Doctor Who episode the film follows Stella Star (Munro) whose name means Star Star. She has a friend Akton who is magical when he needs to be and can tell the future, but refuses to do so. Somewhere in space cackling space tyrant Count Zarth Arn is creating a weapon to destroy his enemy the Space Emperor. This weapon, a fuzzy red-light, sends you mad. Unless you’re Stella and Akton. Or a robot. There are also Amazons. And David Hasselhoff as the Emperor’s son, Simon. Yes the hero/love interest is called Simon. I’d hoped that, like some of the Spaghetti Westerns, there were some clever Marxist undertones smuggled in. There’s not. It’s just crap. Even Caroline Munro’s wide variety of bikini’s don’t enliven things. And although I’m not a stickler for Science Fact in this genre, I’m pretty sure just crashing through a window would cause a vacuum and kill everyone.

Still it has some camp appeal, and maybe if squinted at through lager soaked eyes it might even be funny. But probably not.

At the end of Ratatouille the cynical jaded critic is sent back to childhood wonder by the simple dish of the punning title – there he finds what he has missed for so long; simple joy. Having watched innumerable films of varying quality I often find myself feeling jaded – familiarity with the form can breed, if not contempt exactly, an ennui. Then along comes a crazy bonkers film like Turbo Kid and a tantalizing moment of long forgotten simple childhood joy in films comes rushing back. I watched with a smile plastered across my face as the future wasteland of 1997 was invaded by BMX chases and robotic love. It’s the film we all wanted in the 1980s but never quite got, at once innocent and ridiculously violent, following an naive young man as he embraces his destiny to save the wasteland from the evil Zeus (Michael Ironside!) and his henchmen (who, correctly, have been dressed out of a sporting goods store). It’s like someone put BMX Bandits, Cyborg, Solar Babies, Mad Max and Cherry 2000 into a blender, and out spurted this wonderful madness.

Kudos must go to the writers and director for hitting the right balance between pastiche and parody; the film mock 80s cliches but never ridicules them. It also showcases some of the barmiest violence I’ve seen in ages, my favourite moments involving disembowelment via BMX.

A film that takes over $400 million worldwide in its first weekend is also derided by critics (currently 28% positive on Rotten Tomatoes) is always going to be difficult to discuss. It is certainly flawed, more of that later, but it isn’t a disaster. And it certainly better than the last $250 million franchise film I reviewed, Spectre, although it does share some of its flaws including a bloated running time and lack of action in the first third. It is I think mostly a bit disappointing in that many of the elements of a great film are present, but they’re not marshalled in a way to really get the blood going. It looks great and, as many have reported, Ben Affleck is a good Batman and Gal Gadot steals what little time she has as Wonder Woman in what is little more than an extended cameo. It also shoehorns in far too many set-ups for the upcoming Justice League films with one dream sequence in particular, although well shot, completely stalling the film. It’s the sort of thing Marvel films have been much better at, using the post-credits stinger rather than delaying the central narrative. When the action does happen it’s pretty good although it was annoying that the only proper Batman sequence occurred in the last 3rd of the film; why not set up his abilities earlier?

The film takes up after the controversial ending of Man of Steel and uses that well, initially, to discuss Superman’s place in the world and the risks he may, or may not, pose. Bruce Wayne gets a ground-level view of the destruction of Metropolis and this provides ample motivation for his anxiety concerning the Kryptonian (and rendering all visions and time travel visits from the Flash irrelevant). But then it bogs down in politics, a redundant African subplot, and a morose Superman. As much as the film gets Batman right it gets Superman wrong. The end of Man of Steel suggested he had found his place in the world, both as Clark Kent and Superman, but this film erases that conclusion and makes him a miserable saviour. Plus there’s no fun in his rescues – sure Snyder wants to play up the mythic, god, aspect of Superman but it erases the essential humility the character requires (imbued on that farm in Kansas) that stops him from growing into the potential fascist dictator that Batman fears. Throughout the history of the Superman comics there’s been a too-and-fro between who is the real person – Clark or Superman. Originally it was the latter, but later (particularly during John Byrne’s reinvention), Clark emerged as the more dominant persona, a realisation that if Superman doesn’t embrace the human side he risks becoming an alienated god-figure, such as Dr Manhattan becomes in Watchmen. That after all is the essential drama of Superman; the question is never can Superman save us, it is will he? This is what, for me anyway, makes him such an interesting character. Every time he goes for a cup of coffee Clark is potentially letting someone die – there is always someone who needs saving. His choice to have a relationship with Lois means taking on a commitment that excludes other responsibilities – it’s horrific really. And although Batman V Superman hints at this burden it never resolves it, as it never allows Superman to invoke his human side. The finale suggests that he comes to realise some of this but it’s a bit late by then. And it’s not like any of this is a unique or new insight, Umberto Eco had it covered years ago.

Back to the film. Jesse Eisenberg is a fun, young, and twitchy Lex Luthor but his motivation is unclear and his manipulation of the titular heroes a bit obvious and his creation of Doomsday is a little too reminiscent of the creation of Nuclear Man in Superman IV: The Quest for Peace in that both involve mixing Kryptonian DNA with his own to make a Superman destroying monster. Amy Adams does her best in the underwritten role of Lois Lane and Holly Hunter makes the most of her brief cameo.

My biggest criticism is that the film essentially lacks heart. Early on in the film a photographer, on assignment with Lois in Africa, is shot. The interweb tells me that this was Jimmy Olsen. His throw away death is symptomatic of the lack of affinity that the film-makers have with Superman’s world. They can do dark, but they really struggle to come into the light.

PS the film also references John Boorman’s excellent Excalibur, please check it out.

Lord this was boring, self-important rubbish. How can a studio spend $250 million working with great actors and superb technicians in some of the most interesting locations in the world and produce 2 hours 40 minutes of meh? I don’t suggest that making a good film is easy – if it was more people would be doing it, but making a dull action film takes some effort.

It all starts promisingly with a neat opening sequence in Mexico, using the Day of the Dead as backdrop to the action. Bond is targeting a mystery man, the assassination goes wrong and a fight in a helicopter ensues. Nothing too original, but the location is good and the opening tracking shot is fun. From there it goes downhill at pace as Craig’s torso gets felt up by octopus tentacles in a credit sequence that seems to be channeling the more outré corners of a loner’s Anime collection. Then, after London preliminaries, a whole vacuous sequence in Rome that does nothing to advance the plot, wastes Monica Bellucci (who appears to dress up in underwear after sex) and features one of the most dull car chases I’ve ever witnessed (and I’ve seen a few). Everything feels done by rote, and Craig looks miserable. Worse the film suffers from an air of self-importance and glumness as if everyone really thinks they’re making a significant work of art. Much as I love action films, rarely do they reach that level, despite their sociological importance as cultural barometers (read some of the late Umberto Eco’s work to get this). The cinematography is very pretty but ill-fitting and it’s edited at a snail’s pace. Mendes seems to have mistaken slow for serious. And good god he uses a lot of slow-dollies into rooms. It’s his Abrams/lens-flare compulsion.

Léa Seydoux is dumped with nothing to do and her romance to Craig seems entirely vacuous – dashing from anger to lust during the course of a fight on a train. Craig himself has failed to build on the promise of the excellent Casino Royale, instead taking the glummer parts of the over-rated Skyfall to heart, and injects no irony or warmth into his portrayal which leaves the audience with a problem. Bond without leavening humour (an invention of the films, not Fleming’s novels) is a misogynist assassin. Craig looks like he knows this, and it looks like he doesn’t like it (not surprising given the good work he does campaigning against violence towards women). Plus the Bond he’s asked to play is now impervious to even drills into the brain, leaving very little drama to work with and no style. The villain (who’s obviously been Blofeld from the day it was named Spectre) wants to control surveillance over the world. Why? I’m not sure. Perhaps he’s the militant wing of the Bilderberg group? He introduces himself to Bond in a special room with a meteor in it. Why? God knows, and it’s another scene that could be removed from the film with little impact on the narrative. Indeed around an hour could be removed and replaced with a few lines of dialogue.

Caught up in the excitement of the London Olympics liking Skyfall seemed to become a patriotic duty for some, but I find the generally positive reaction to Spectre even more inexplicable – if it weren’t for the reason I spent money to rent it, and that Christoph Waltz appeared to give some life to the film, I would have happily taken my 11 year old daughter’s advice and stopped it. The film also proves Hollywood’s unfailing ability to learn the wrong lessons. In copying first the Bourne films and then the Dark Knight Trilogy the Bond producers have only managed to produce something overlong, over-serious and lacking in the surprise and excitement that made the other films so good. As James Gunn has warned here, copying films does no-one any favours.

It’s a shame, there’s perhaps few people as willing to love a Bond film as I am (I do appear in one of the video games for Christ’s sake), but I found nothing to love and little to like in this snail paced film that had me pining for the fun of yore. In fact, and I do mean this, A View to a Kill is a better film. Really. And it’s not very good (Moore is practically using a Zimmer and the heroine is capable of being snuck up upon by a Zepplin), but it’s never this boring. Craig has followed Brosnan’s pattern of starring in an excellent debut, to be followed by increasingly muddled sequels. I never thought I’d dislike a Bond film as much as Die Another Day but they did it. And that film had Madonna and an invisible car.

It has been with a depressing familiarity that Hollywood has got itself in a mess this Oscar season about the lack of racial diversity in its nominees. Not only is this the second year without any non-white nominees for the key awards, it smacks of the same attitudes present since Hattie McDaniel accepted her Oscar in a Whites Only hotel for a film that painted slavery as not that bad and a nice backdrop to the problems of wealthy white people. Meanwhile the argument about equal pay for women goes on, spearheaded by Jennifer Lawrence, and the startling lack of female directors is still to be noted (it’s worth listening to this excellent interview with Lexi Alexender on the topic) while male directors with a history of failures keep getting work.

All this came together in my mind while watching the execrable Pixels directed by journeyman Chris Columbus who has had some success (most notably with the first two, most boring, Harry Potters, Home Alone and Mrs Doubtfire) and some sizable flops (the $100 million Bicentennial Man being the most offensive). That Columbus gets a budget of $88 million for this dross when directors like Kathryn Bigelow and Mary Harron have barely made any films in the past 10 years shows how much the gender problem lingers throughout the Hollywood system. God knows how much Adam Sandler got for his lazy performance, but I’ve no doubt he probably made double the money that Michelle Monaghan received. Worse still this film puts a capable actress through the indignity of playing an horrific male-fantasy of rebound MILF; the sort of woman who goes for men who basically harass her when she’s in a fragile emotional state. Watch as Sandler, playing a TV repair guy, literally says “Wow” as she enters and then proceeds to explain that he’s shocked that any man would leave her because she’s so hot! Instead of, like a real person, phoning his boss and getting him sacked, she tolerates this eventually deciding that the schlub has potential. The rest of the film is lazy as hell, and continues to demean women throughout, seeing them exclusively as the reward for male effort – including one character having a threesome arranged for him by the President because he helped save the world. In a kids movie. It’s also an incredibly white film, with non-white characters limited to support (in fact the only two significant non-whites, both male, need to be rescued by our white heroes in the film’s tepid denouement). The only engaging character in the film is Q*bert, an animated sidekick – and even he is transformed into a sexy-hot-female-warrior so one hero can live his weird cyber-sex fantasies. Did I mention it’s, y’know, for kids?

Generally considered as a flop Pixels managed to drag in $244 million globally, meaning it probably covered it’s costs. But it stands as an excellent expression of all that’s wrong with Hollywood – a story conceived around a cool idea, but one that no-one thought through; misogyny from the get go (the cast has two characters called Cyber Chick #1, and Cyber Chick #2); lack of diversity; and a horrible view of its audience.

Yes the Oscars are an affront. Yes the pay-gap is wrong. But the problem will not be solved by a few awards, or a few pay rises. Until it hits the execs who put this tripe together, who treat their audience as a bunch of idiots with the emotional intelligence of zero, nothing changes. Please stop spending your money on this stuff – seek out the work of female directors, make an effort to watch films made by, and for, diverse people. Otherwise there’s another 100 years of this.

Warning: Spoilers!

Having scandalized a nation with the excellent Dressed to Kill (1980) De Palma planned to go one better with his next Body Double, this time re-mixing Vertigo and Rear Window and then adding some madness that’s all his own. It’s more polished than its predecessor, but lacks the visceral shocks, although much is made up by the gleeful deconstruction of male spectatorship in a film in which a crime is solved because the protagonist (Craig Wasson as a loser B-Movie actor) surfs porn channels at night. The twist is so ludicrous it trumps all other elements in this thriller that once again throws the audience a dirty look and suggest that watching films might just be a bit perverted.

Wasson is Jake Scully an actor fired from a terrible vampire film because he suffers from claustrophobia. He goes home and finds his wife in bed with another man (worse than that, he makes her “Glow”). A new friend (Gregg Henry) offers him a place to stay, in what must be the most 1980s location ever, the Ultramodern Chemosphere complete with rotating bed and a telescope that spies on the hot woman dancing opposite. Mix in a mysterious Native American TV engineer and a murder plot soon hatches in which, in the least subtly phallic way imaginable, a woman is killed by a very large drill. Haunted by this woman Jake cracks up, watches porn and spies Melanie Griffith (as porn-star Holly Body) who has some familiar dance moves. Jake, being a bit mad, decides the best way to follow up his observation is to star in a porn-film opposite Holly, a scene which includes Frankie Goes to Hollywood singing their subtle anthem Relax (and I mean the actual band turns up, not just the song).

On paper nothing should work about this film. The protagonist is unlikable, the plot hinges on ludicrous behavior and coincidences and the finale involves a dog misidentifying his owner, but the whole is done with such (heavily 1980s) style and verve that it works, dashing though its running time at breakneck speed. It also makes some neat observations about the male audience, and the differences between being a Peeping Tom and watching porn. Just as in Dressed to Kill women are not represented well, there are only two really, but the men are far worse: a bunch of selfish, obsessive voyeurs. And De Palma’s willingness to throw in every thriller trick makes it hypnotic watching.

As a dedicated practitioner of the pedagogical arts I thought I should check this out to see if I could glean any tips to enhance my work. Well, first I think it’s safe to say one should never put one’s inner-city war-zone school into an experiment with a crazy eyed Stacy Keach who is determined to use reprogrammed military hard-ware as a solution to the campiest gangs since The Warriors. Also appointing Malcolm McDowall as Principal is probably a bad idea. And when one of the teachers is Pam Grier (pre-Tarantino) you’ve got to realise things will go South pretty quickly.

This B-Movie feels like someone locked the Blackboard Jungle in a room with The Terminator and supplied some Barry White CDs and Viagra. And while it’s not without its fun it suffers from a poorly conceived world in which parts of America have become “Free-Fire” zones where the police won’t go but where the Government is still funding public education. Like many future shock films it fails to answer important questions such as: where do they get all the hair gel from? How can these losers afford so many bullets? And why would McDowall’s Principal allow his peppy daughter to attend such a hell hole?

So, not great then. But fun can be had, particularly in the last 20 minutes where the budget is thoroughly used up on some dodgy pyrotechnics and stop motion work. Was enough of a cult hit to get a DTV sequel.

Now this is good, silly, OTT fun. A joyful romp that riffs on the many Frankenstein films from the last 80 years, this new film should not be taken as a serious adaptation of Mary Shelley’s work (which is rather dull anyway), but rather as an attempt to revise the story into a more modern aesthetic while retaining a love for what’s gone before (including a delightful nod to Mel Brook’s 1974 spoof). In fact any references to Shelley’s work are minimal, almost entirely limited to the phrase “Modern Prometheus.” Originally titled Igor, a character invented by Universal, this film is as much a bromance between Radcliffe’s hunchback clown/part-time medic and James McAvoy’s electric, manic, saliva-spitting scientist. Indeed the film’s neatest twist on a well worn narrative is to shift the focus away from the creature and towards the creators and how their activities might go down in Victorian London (not the Geneva of the novel), where they gain the attention of Scotland Yard’s Inspector Turpin (Andrew Scott). Throw in a little hunchback on acrobat romance and some terrific sets and compositions and you’re left with a film that is entirely un-serious but has great narrative drive and some terrific set pieces, the highlight being when an early creation, called Gordon, charges through a medical college. The final act even manages to stage a sequence that feels familiar to fans of monster movies, but sufficiently different to entertain.

There are plot-holes and many questions left unanswered, but live with the contrivances and you can soak up the atmosphere and McAvoy’s energy – no scene is left unchewed as he rampages through the film. Radcliffe continues to create a sound distance between himself and The Boy Who Lived and good-old Charles Dance turns up to lend support. This however may be the kiss of death on the film at the box-office. His appearance can be problematic in Hollywood films – but this deserves a better reception than Last Action Hero, Alien 3, China Moon, Space Truckers, Your Highness…

O Canada! Such a civilized and cultured place. As someone once told me it’s America, run by the Swiss. And yet beneath that genial Canuck exterior lurks a dark underbelly that produced David Cronenberg, James Cameron, and Atom Egoyan. And now comes Lowell Dean a man who thinks the best way to depict a werewolf transformation is to begin with the penis. Genius.

Wolfcop is not the best film ever, but I’m glad it exists. At a brisk 79 minutes it flies by following its loser protagonist Lou Garou (Leo Fafard) as he wakes one morning with vague memories of a black magic ritual. As he turns from Cop to Wolfcop a lot of fun is had, especially as it turns Lou from a very poor police officer to a very effective lycanthropic defender of law and order (if a little violent. If tearing of someone’s face is considered violent. Which it is. Even in Canada). The whole film plays as a homage to classic campy 80s horror (thing The Howling & Vamp), and is maybe a little too self-aware at times, but generally it takes its ludicrous premise to the right extremes including the best human/werewolf sex scene you’ll see this year. All to a bespoke synth soundtrack.

I wish it had a little more money for the finale, but up till then it’s great and includes some wonderful practical effects answering questions such as “What happens to the human skin a werewolf sheds?” and “What would an alcoholic werewolf be like?” Finally we know. Wolfcop 2 has been announced. Well done Canada.

This is a fun little B horror, enjoying the culturally ingrained fetishisms that surround the healthcare profession and stirring in its own happy brand of weird. The film follows Abby (Paz de la Huerta) who narrates the film in a Kill Bill style as she persues her quest to punish men that she judges are letting down their wives and families. Her murderous honey-trap develops however when she mentors new nurse Danni (Katrina Bowden), and develops a dangerous obsession.

A proper exploitation film full of nudity and violence Nurse is good fun if you don’t think too hard about it. Well shot and at times quite inventive it builds its elements of body horror steadily until a Hospital becomes covered in blood. Abby is a nice addition to the slasher villain roll-call, which really has too few women on it. I couldn’t quite decide if Paz de la Huerta’s performance was eccentric or just plain bad, but it was always entertaining and the film builds to a fun if decidedly OTT finale. Katrina Bowden does a good line in not-so-defenseless damsel and Judd Nelson (of the 1980s!) provides good support, with Kathleen Turner in a quick cameo (that voice is still to die for). Could do without the CGI blood – whatever happened to condoms filled with corn-syrup? – but for an hour and a half of cheap thrills you can’t go too wrong with this.